


Every Breath You Take

by PerilousCowboy



Series: 100 Songs Challenge - Billboard Top 100 [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilousCowboy/pseuds/PerilousCowboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 100 Songs Prompt. These were the most agonizing four minutes and thirty seven seconds of Solo's life. Or, Illya and Gaby's first kiss doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Breath You Take

**i. Gaby : 3 minutes, 49 seconds**

They teach her how to fire a gun. That’s Waverly’s doing. She trains hard with it, starting out with the reasoning that she doesn’t want to have to rely on Solo or Illya to protect her like that. She’s not some precious flower who can’t hold her own in a fight – she’s more than proven that. 

Her reasoning changes after Istanbul. After Venice. Especially after Manhattan. It becomes less about being able to handle things on her own and more about being able to backup her partners. More about them being able to rely on her in more situations than just driving a car or wearing a dress or flirting with a mark. She shoots her first man in Manhattan. He’s just gotten done putting a bullet into Solo’s shoulder. A flesh wound, no lasting damage. 

Gaby had taken it personally. 

There are other skills they teach her. Solo teaches her how to pickpocket. He’s instrumental in teaching her Russian because he knows all the curses and dirty words that make Illya twitch. He teaches her about art and she’s never seen him more passionate about anything. 

Illya, for his contribution, teaches her chess. She’s not good at it. Can’t sit still long enough and gets bored easily, but she tries because, like Solo, he has a passion for it. He teaches her some disarming moves, he teaches her how to choke hold and he tells her that one day, he’ll teach her “the kiss.” But not today. It’s never today and she’s not holding her breath for it. 

Today, she’s thankful for all of it. Her boys had failed to check in at the designated time and while Waverly told her that an extraction team was too risky, he’d also told her that this is what she’d been training for. Put those skills to use and bring them home. 

It’s the first time she’s had to do a solo infiltration, without Solo or Illya guiding her moves. She can do this. Those are her boys. 

_Those are her boys._

She finds Solo strapped to a chair in a warehouse that hasn’t been used in decades. His wrists are bound, strap around his neck and while it’s obvious he’s been trying to free himself, the bindings are tight enough he hasn’t made headway. He’s staring up at a man in front of him, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is yelling at Solo that it’s too late. That he gave him every opportunity to talk, but the time for talking is over. She doesn’t know what he means by it, but she’s heard enough. Eliminate him. 

She does, with two shots, just to be sure. One hits the man’s chest, the other his abdomen and while they may not be kill shots by themselves, they are when coupled together. Solo jerks in the chair, not having expected it as the man crumples in front of him. Gaby hurries over, but stops and shoots over Solo’s shoulder at a man who’d been lifting his gun on the other side of a dark, deep pool of water spanned out in front of them. 

The man goes down in one shot. To the head. Her aim is better under pressure. 

“Gaby,” Solo greets her, that usual swagger to his voice, but the expression on his face looks like a farce this time. There’s a smile that curves his lips, but a wideness to his eyes that belies his true feelings. “Your timing is impeccable,” he tells her as she begins working on the bindings. They look surgical. “Quickly, if you would,” he requests. 

“Solo,” she greets him back finally. “What trouble did you run into this time?” 

He smiles up at her, though it wanes immediately. She works on another binding as she gets one hand free and he works on the binding around his neck. They both come free at the same time. “A rather unfortunate betrayal,” he tells her and she doesn’t know what he means by it. 

“And Illya?” she asks. 

“In a moment.” He doesn’t elaborate.

There’s not chance to ask, because in the next second, he’s stripping off his jacket, holding it out for her, a hurriedness to his motions. She gives him a look. She’s not his maid or his…- “Be so kind?,” he asks. Something about the tone of his voice and she’s taking the jacket. 

It’s with an easy dive that he goes headfirst into the pool in front of them. With a scoff, she holds her hand out to the side and waits for him to resurface. 

**ii. Illya : - 2 minutes, 32 seconds**

Illya despised betrayal. Though, to be fair, he didn’t know a person who enjoyed it. It was just that he was more familiar with it than he cared to be. Maybe it came with being in the KGB or being an agent leashed to any label, he supposed. Maybe it came with being Russian or Soviet, or maybe it just came with being Illya. Betrayal ran in the Kuryakin blood, perhaps. 

His father had betrayed his country, according to the government. Whether it was true or not, whether it was simply that the government had wanted him gone and had used his embezzlement as a scapegoat – Illya didn’t care. It was still a betrayal. His mother…- betrayal. No need to think about it. 

And Gaby. Though, that betrayal had been turned around on him. When she’d told Alexander and Uncle Rudi that he was a KGB agent, his heart had sunk. He’d thought she’d played him better than he’d ever been played before. It was a familiar feeling of betrayal that had settled into his gut and had only been put at ease on the ride to the aircraft carrier, when Waverly had explained. Explained that it hadn’t been Gaby who’d betrayed them. 

It was Illya. Who’d believed she was capable. 

Either way, he was going to have words with Waverly when they returned. Not if. When. UNCLE was small yet. Had established a base in New York City, of all places. On American soil, where his accent got more looks than he cared to admit. It was hard being KGB in the States. He’d rather have their base in London and he’d told Waverly on multiple occasions. Waverly had only smiled. The kind of smile that told Illya he had something up his sleeve. 

The words he had for Waverly, however, were that he needed to screen his agents better. Double agents were always a threat. But they had a mole in their midst, one who’d sold them out. Their marks had been waiting as they’d entered the warehouse. It had been a trap from the start and while Illya and Solo had still managed to take out a decent number of them, they’d been overpowered. A small army. That’s what it’d taken. That and a gun pointed at Solo’s head, the order that followed telling Illya to stop unless he wanted to see just how red Americans bled. 

There was annoyance now. With his hands tied behind his back and the muzzle of a gun pressed into his spine as they made him walk. They’d separated them. He’d lost sight of Solo and tried to take out a guard or two once the immediate danger was over, but the damage had been done when he’d lost the upper hand the first time. 

Leading him through a hallway, they stopped when they got to a deep, dark pool of water. Illya’s eyes narrowed, because across from it was Solo, strapped to a chair. He looked only a little worse for wear, but still worse. Blood on his face. Conscious, though, which was something. He wondered if the man had a plan. Solo always seemed to have a plan. 

“Did I ever tell you that I fought in the war?” the man next to Solo asked, his attention completely on Illya’s partner. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like that the accent was distinctly American as well. It would have been better if they were the Peruvian arms dealers they’d come after. 

“Oh?” Solo asked, the picture of calm and polite. Ever the professional. He never seemed out of his element and it was one of the things Illya admired about him. But he’d be damned if he ever told the man. “Which one?” 

“I was at Normandy,” the man said. “We took heavy gunfire before we were even off our boats. Artillery, even. Some caught fire. Some sank. Mine got stuck. Caught on…I don’t even know what. But we had to jump. Overboard, into the water. Packs and everything.” The man lifted a hand, giving some sort of signal with it and the man behind Illya started to move. He didn’t turn his head, only his eyes to watch his silhouette, nervous now for Solo, who was strapped to a chair in front of this man. 

“A tough break,” Solo falsely commiserated. 

The man in front of him snapped, “A death sentence. Have you ever tried to swim with a full pack and a gun and bullets raining down on you? You can’t. You can only sink. You only know the darkness of the water.” 

The feel of something snapping around his ankle had Illya looking away, down at the shackle that had been fastened around him. He followed the steel chain’s trail up to see it embedded deeply into a block of cement nearly a third the size of Illya himself. He looked at the man behind him and then across to Solo, ice cold blue eyes wide as he put the pieces together. 

Solo’s attention was on the cement block before his own gaze lifted to Illya’s, their eyes meeting for a moment. 

“Tell me what you know of THRUSH,” the man said. 

Illya gave Solo the smallest shakes of his head. No. Don’t. If the man didn’t know already, it meant their mole wasn’t high up in the chain of command. Didn’t have access. So don’t. Just don’t, Solo. Everything will be okay. 

Solo’s eyes stayed on him for a long moment, before he returned his gaze to the man in front of him, that smile back on his face. It was forced. Entirely. “You mean the fungal infection?” he asked. “I hear that is a very personal matter, best taken up with a competent doctor of your choosing-…”

The man waved his hand again. The cement block beside Illya was kicked, tipping over and falling bodily into the black water in front of him. The chain around Illya’s ankle tugged so hard he thought it would take his foot off. He turned, trying to grab hold, find any sort of purchase for his fingers on the edge of the pool. The block sank, pulling Illya down and he grunted. The man who’d kicked the block came over to try and kick him in the face, but Illya grabbed his foot, giving it a violent twist, causing him to cry out. He was still being pulled down, his leg twisting painfully and his arm straining to keep hold of the edge. 

The man scrambled over, this time hauling a hand back and hitting Illya across the face. 

He lost his grip then. There wasn’t even time to panic. 

There was just cold water as he was pulled beneath the surface. 

**iii. Solo : 4 minutes, 37 seconds**

Solo dived in, after handing his jacket to Gaby. He was a man of fashion and while he could pretend later that he’d handed it to the woman to save the jacket, he’d actually handed it to her because he’d need all the mobility he could get. 

It wasn’t going to be easy saving Illya. 

Nearly four and a half minutes he’d been beneath the surface. The seconds were ticking away in Solo’s head and while he didn’t know how long the Russian could hold his breath, he knew it wasn’t this long. Knew without a doubt that he he’d been in the water too long. 

No time to panic. He’d done this before. Hopefully this wouldn’t become a habit. 

It was an adventure working with Gaby and Illya. He’d always protested that he worked better alone. And for anyone who asked why that was, it was because when he was alone, no one could get in his way. It was the answer he’d give to anyone. But the truth of the matter was – and he’d brutally maim anyone who suggested this as truth – he couldn’t lose anyone but himself if he worked alone. 

He was a thief and a man of rich taste, but before that, he’d been a soldier. And that wasn’t something he’d been conscripted to do. Not like this. That was something he’d signed up for. And in the army, in the military, that was a brotherhood. He’d fought beside men he’d called brothers. Seen atrocities and survived battles that shouldn’t have ever happened. He’d also seen men get shot. Get parts of themselves blown off. Seen bodies lining the sides of roads and camps where the unimaginable happened. 

Maybe that was why in all that blood and all that death, he’d found art. He’d found a higher sort of taste to steal and he’d continued it afterwards, done it alone, because no one could die on him if he was alone. 

Only then Gaby had come along. And then Illya. And while it was supposed to be a short term thing, Waverly had seen to the opposite. Had put together the team, a highly effective one, if Solo had to be honest. But he was no longer working alone. It meant now, he had more to lose. 

Which was why he couldn’t wear his coat in the water. Illya had been under there for too long. 

He spotted the man through the murkiness and it was easy to reach him, but once he did there was still the matter of the shackle around his ankle. Inside his shoe, a hidden compartment, was a lockpick. He ignored the way Illya’s arms floated out to the side, the way he swayed limply in the water. Spotted the crack in the cement that the Russian had put there trying to pull the metal free, half pulled out. He’d almost had it. If only he’d had more time. 

The lock was easy to break apart with the right tool, Illya had never been as deft with his hands as Solo was, and as soon as Illya started to rise, free of the constraint, he grabbed him beneath the arms, pulling him up with him. 

They broke the surface and from the edge of the pool, he heard Gaby gasp. “Illya!” 

Deja vu flashed before Solo’s eyes as he put one hand to Illya’s chin and neck, keeping his head tipped back and against Solo’s shoulder so it wouldn’t sink beneath the surface again. He wrapped an arm around his chest, kicking them towards the edge while he tried to compress the man in the water to get him to breathe. To get him to choke out that water he’d inhaled. 

It didn’t happen this time. 

“Damn it, Peril,” Solo cursed beneath his breath as they reached the edge. Gaby leaned down, taking Illya beneath the arms and hoisting him up onto the concrete. Strong girl. That’s how Illya liked them, apparently. 

He climbed out as well, Gaby at Illya’s side, her hands on his face. “He’s not breathing,” she said, smacking his face lightly, but there was no response, no emotion to those too pale features. 

“Four minutes, thirty seven seconds,” Solo said as he positioned himself at Illya’s other side. “When I say to, breathe for him,” he said as he held his hands over Illya’s sternum. “Be sure to pinch his nose and tilt his head.” He compressed in even paces, counting in his head and then nodded at Gaby. 

She didn’t hesitate. Leaning down to do as Solo instructed, her lips covering Illya’s as she breathed air into his water-filled lungs. There was no response and Solo tried again. 

“He was in there for four and a half minutes?” Gaby asked, watching Solo work, waiting for another cue. 

Solo nodded, giving her a seemingly calming smile. “A blink of an eye for a Russian,” he told her. Though they both knew that no matter how strong, how invincible Illya seemed, he was still human. He was still capable of leaving them. 

“Again,” Solo told her after he reached his count and she leaned down, covering his lips again with her own. 

Still nothing and Solo started compressions again. Now the man was starting to worry him. He watched Kuryakin’s face, refusing to believe that  _this_  would be the way the man chose to leave the world. 

Gaby kept her hands on Illya’s face, brushing his hair matted to his skin back. Solo didn’t comment when she spoke quietly. “What do you think you’re doing, Illya?” she whispered. “You owe me a dance.” 

“Again,” Solo said, watching as she bent and breathed for a third time. 

It was the charm. Like always. Illya jerked, immediately choking as the water in his lungs expelled itself. Solo reached to turn Illya onto his side, letting him get it all out. Gaby moved closer, pulling Illya’s head into her lap as she smoothed his hair some more. “It’s okay,” she told him. 

It took him a moment, but Illya finally rolled onto his back on his own accord. Eyes going from Gaby’s face, to peer down at Solo, who’d sat back on his haunches, giving the man a nod to say that yes, in fact it was okay. 

“Cowboy,” he rasped. 

Solo reached to give his foot a squeeze in understanding before he pushed himself to his feet. “You’re quite welcome,” he told him, standing and ringing out his shirt. “Not how I imagined your first kiss going.” 

It was Gaby who rolled her eyes, turning to look at Solo, though she didn’t deny it and she didn’t let Illya push his head off her lap yet either, hands still moving through damp hair. “What business is that of yours?” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Solo said, reaching for his discarded jacket and throwing it over his shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m off in search of a…dryer Laurent.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my own 100 Songs challenge where I'll write a fic for Billboard's top 100 Songs of All time. I am in love with this movie and this trio.


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